


Never Quite Eden

by Drake_Rhapsody



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, How Do I Tag, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Baby, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23318242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drake_Rhapsody/pseuds/Drake_Rhapsody
Summary: Two months after Armaggedon't, Crowley shows up at the bookshop with a crying baby in his arms and so scared Aziraphale could have sworn all the demons in Hell were after him (wich may just be the case).
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 57





	1. The time was wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miniCrisGM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miniCrisGM/gifts).



> I've had this idea floating around in my head at least since August, so you probably have to thank the Covid-19 and the lockdown I'm currently in that I've finally came around to post this.  
> I'm not a native English speaker, so bear with me and my mistakes, please, and if you see one that is just too bad to continue, please message me so I can fix it.  
> I know where I'm going with this story but I've absolutely no idea how many chapters is going to take, so buckle up, we're here for a long ride.  
> Tags will be updated as I post chapters.  
> The title is from a Heather Dale's song, I highly recommend listening to that at some point, because ir reminded me so much of those two I simply had to do something about it.  
> Sorry in advance for all those footnotes and the Mark Knopfler references.  
> Enjoy!

As much as Crowley wanted the evening to never end, a nightingale could not sing forever at Berkeley’s Square, for it was not it’s place. They left the Ritz minutes before closing time, and for the first time in nearly a century, Crowley was happy he didn’t have the Bentley to drive them home. The night was calm and warm and suddenly they had all the time in the world. That wasn’t normal for them.

But then, what the He… what on _Earth_ was _normal_ for them anyways?

All was good.

The world hadn’t ended.

Earth was safe.

They were finally free.

Yeah, sure they would have to lay low for a while, make Heaven and Hell forget about them and then… well, then Eternity on Earth. Sounded like the perfect title for a Dire Straits song, if they were still up and about. Maybe he should pay old Mark a visit, whisper in his ear for old time’s sake. Their own take of _Romeo and Juliet_ hadn’t been half bad after all. In Crowley’s opinion, it was much better that the insufferable tragedy Aziraphale so dearly loved.

The angel looked complete and utterly happy, still commenting about the food and the dessert and _someone_ knows what else, because Crowley had stopped listening at some point. “Pale Blue Eyes” playing in a loop in his head, he was watching how the angel moved his hands, actually _moving_ them[1], free at last to fuss, to laugh hard and loud, to fucking tap-dance in the middle of the street with his wings out if he so desired. And Crowley found himself wanting to grab him by his shoulders, bring him close and just…

Just… what? Hug him?

Kiss him?

And what after that?

_We are an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common._

There was something bitter in the way that, the closer they got to the bookshop, the more Crowley’s saunter turned towards something more crawly-ish: dragging feet, bowed head and slumped shoulders, hands buried in too-tight pockets. He didn’t want the night to end, but then he declined Aziraphale’s invitation to come in for a drink, leaving the angel a bit surprised for the sudden negative. He told him he wanted to see his Bentley and water his plants and sleep for a week at least. All lies, because Aziraphale had told him that his beloved car was as good as new, and his plants where perfectly fine the last time he saw them; Needn’t watering for a couple of days at least.

No, the real reason was he absolutely didn’t want to get drunk with the angel in the bookshop. Not tonight, not after the Armaggedidn’t. Not after believing he had lost him in the fire, not after… not after the bandstand.

 _There’s not our side, not anymore_.

That had hurt. But what came after that…

_It’s over._

That had felt worse than a knife wound[2]. He had left the bandstand with angry strides, wishing the angel a good Doomsday with all the sarcasm he could muster. The natural reaction hadn’t come until he was driving like mad, halfway to his Mayfair flat. After avoiding by the skin of his teeth a collision with a van he had not seen through his own traitorous tears, Crowley had actually had to pull over in some street he didn’t care look at the name and, hands still grasping the wheel, buried his face in his arms and sobbed for a solid twenty-three minutes. And it had terrified him to find that he wasn’t even angry, just… sad. And resigned.

Over? He wanted to laugh at himself, at Aziraphale, at the whole fucking universe, because how could it be over? 6000 years looking after each other, being friends with each other… 6000 years of walks at the park, theatre afternoons and dinner at some place or another, followed by nights of laughs and jokes and drinks[3]. 6000 years of Crowley loving Aziraphale with all the heart and soul he didn’t thing Heaven had spared him until he met the angel. How could all of that just… not mean anything anymore?

And then Aziraphale had managed to get discorporated for what had been the most terrifying hours of Crowley’s eternal life[4].

And then they had almost been smitten by Satan himself.

And then the bloody angel had taken his hand[5] on the bus ride and spent the night at his flat, sitting beside him and letting him lean on his shoulder[6] while he tried to keep all the accumulated anxiety contained.

And then they had almost been smitten by their own blasted sides.

And then they had celebrated their little triumph[7] at The Ritz, as if harsh words hadn’t been spoken, as if Crowley’s heart[8] hadn’t taken a permanent residence in the pit of his stomach.

He knew he should have taken Aziraphale’s offer and just let things get back in the way they used to be, but he simply couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe after a nap, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week… but not now. Too much had happened at once, he still felt as if the world were about to stop turning and just explode. He needed time, some peace and quiet, and a nap. Alcohol too, but he had enough of that in his flat.

And then he would be ready to see Aziraphale again.

It would be alright, they could be back to what they used to be, only good friends if the angel so desired[9], but now he needed time to think, rebuild his walls and swallow his stupid pride until it was only a bit of a heartburn, alongside with all the love he shouldn’t be feeling.

Spoiler: It didn’t work.

…

The 31st of October, the doorbell jangled and Aziraphale rose his eyes from his book with a frown.

“It’s closed!” he said and started to get up from his cozy couch in the back room.

He could’ve sworn the door had been locked since four in the afternoon. Every year since that blasted American tradition, the angel had shut business early to avoid all the trick-or-treating and the kids running around smashing eggs into his books and crashing his shelves[10].

“I said we’re clo…” he started to say again, but the rest died on his throat when he crossed the threshold from the back room to the shop.

Crowley.

Crowley was there, and it would’ve had been a very happy reunion[11] but the state he was in made the angel forget about reunions, and happiness and everything that wasn’t the fact that Crowley was there, without his glasses, without his jacket and waistcoat, his usually perfectly styled hair a complete mess, sticking in all directions like a bird’s nest and yellow eyes, with concerning dark circles under them, scanning everything around the bookshop as if someone was about to jump from a hidden corner and tackle him. For some reason, the demon cradled something to his chest, something that looked like a bundle of clothes.

“Crowley, what…”

Snake eyes turned toward him, and the demon seemed to breathe for the first time since he stepped into the bookshop.

“Angel!”

In two long strides, the demon was by his side.

“Where are they?” he blurted and Aziraphale blinked once, twice, before giving him the most puzzled expression he was capable of.

“Who?”

“Your side, Aziraphale! Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“My dear boy, I haven’t the faintest…”

“Then there’s still time. Gather your things, we have to get out of here…”

“Crowley, STOP” He did, eyes still scanning for foes among the bookshelves. “Now could you _please_ explain what on Earth is going on?”

The little bundle Aziraphale had mistook for clothes moved then and started to wail. The demon barely spared it a look before shushing and cradling it with a practiced movement. He snapped his head up, trying to catch the demon’s eyes, completely shocked.

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” retorted the angel, and before the demon had time to react, he had taken the bundle from him and uncovered the very red face of a baby who was too busy crying to realize they had changed arms. “Isn’t this a human baby? As I recall, my dear boy, newborn babies have never been a good omen when they had something to do with you.”

“Yes! Well, no… No Antichrist this time” When Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, Crowley hurried to put one hand in the air and the other to her chest. “I swear it, Angel! This has nothing to do with the end of the world.”

Aziraphale gave him a once over and turned his attention towards the baby, not the least bit convinced.

“What did you do, Crowley?”

“Arg, for the love of…” Crowley racked his hands through his already disheveled hair “Ngk! Just… just trust me, okay?” then suddenly the faintest shadow of doubt crossed his face “You do trust me, don’t you?”

Aziraphale truly didn´t know what to do. He had hoped for Crowley to return to him, but not carrying more problems. It had barely been two months since the failed End of the World after all! They were supposed to have more time before trouble started again. He had hoped for more time of peace, of afternoons in the bookshop with Crowley, with a good wine and an interesting discussion. And maybe… maybe one of those afternoons could be the one he told Crowley everything. Maybe after a good walk in the park, a spot of lunch in at one of their favourite restaurants, maybe after a glass or two… but Crowley had disappeared and left the angel to his own devices, mulling the last few days over and over.

What if Crowley didn’t feel the same and he ended up spoiling the good friendship they shared? That couldn’t happen! He had decided to wait and see how Crowley reacted to their newfound freedom, maybe try to… to woo him, somehow.

God, but what a strange thing to be thinking about.

And suddenly there came Crowley, with a crying human child and problems stitched to the soles of his snakeskin boots like Peter Pan’s shadow. Now said baby was in the angel’s arms and in addition he had to deal with a very distraught demon who wouldn’t bloody tell him why he was so urgently asking Aziraphale to trust him.

“Leave where?” this was awfully familiar and perhaps that’s why the next words slipped from his mouth right away. “Alpha Centaury?”

He felt the tightening in his own chest before Crowley’s breath caught like he had been punched.

“Not that far” was the answer but what was intended to be a light tone, maybe a joke, sounded hurt and sad. “Do you trust me?” the demon repeated and even Aziraphale could tell he was missing his glasses because he carefully avoided looking the angel in the eye, choosing instead to stare at the noisy bundle in his arms.

He sighed, already knowing he was about to lose that battle:

“Of course I do” replied softly.

No “You’re a demon”, no “get thee behind me”. Just the truth, plain and clear.

Crowley looked awfully relieved for a second, but then he sprung back into action:

“Good. Then hold her tight, grab whatever you can manage and get in the car” And before the angel could object, he –finally!– looked him in the eye to add “Please. I’ll explain later, I promise.”

That did it. With a snap of his fingers and a rush of angelic energy that left a strange feeling in the air, like the heaviness before a storm, all the shelves, tables, desks and other pieces of furniture were covered with white sheets, and beside Aziraphale rested a single, but very old, suitcase.

“The rest is already on the trunk of the Bentley” he said.

Before the angel could do it himself, Crowley had taken the bag and strode out of the bookshop. Letting out a breath, he shushed the still wailing child and went after him.

Mere seconds after, the bookshop was closed, a sign on the door informing that the owner was gone on a vacation and the Bentley was only a distant noise in the street.

[1] There was a time he swore he would kill all those stuck-up bastards who dared to try and shape his angel like a little toy soldier, all stoic and contained and afraid of stepping out of the line and just be himself. Of course, he loved the way Aziraphale’s hands always seemed to be clasped into one another, but he absolutely adored when they flew around with every fervent explanation or description the angel made.

[2] He should know, he was around in Rome when backstabbing emperors and senators was pretty much a national sport. He didn’t discorporate for that one, but it was so damn close he fled for the Danube and, out of spite, sided with the barbarians who were to bring down the empire a couple of centuries later. That would teach them to try and discorporate a demon when he’s only doing his damn job!

[3] Not smokes, neither one of them smoked. That last part had been Mark and Mark alone.

[4] He already suspected it, but the sight of the bookshop in flames would haunt his dreams for centuries to come.

[5] Crowley had yet to grasp the meaning of _that_ , because Aziraphale just _didn’t do_ that kind of things. Ever. And even if he did, the angel had _broken up with him_ early on, at the bandstand, or that’s what it felt, at least. So, what the fuck, Aziraphale. What the actual fuck.

[6] Again, _what the actual fuck, Aziraphale_.

[7] They kept considering it a triumph despite knowing that they’ve spent eleven years making a blunder of it all.

[8] Because of course he had a heart, even black holes and stars had hearts, so why everybody kept forgetting that demons did too?

[9] Go… Sa… _someone_ knew Crowley would do anything for Aziraphale, even supress his own feelings. He had been doing that for six millennia after all.

[10] That had never actually happened, but let’s pretend it did so Aziraphale can keep his excuses...

[11] He hadn’t seen the wily serpent in many weeks after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE. I added real titles to the chapters. This one is from "Romeo & Juliet", a Dire Straits song.


	2. Whisper, whisper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm very, very sorry for the delay! I thought, foolish me, that I would have this written in no time at all, given all the free time I suddenly have (damn you, Covid-19!), but no, I spend my days trying an failing to do things. That doesn't mean I'm abandoning this.  
> Again, sorry for the delay and for the short chapter (and for the tons and tons of footnotes of last one, I've toned it down in this one).  
> The title of this chapter is from "Devil in a Midnight Mass", by Billy Talent.

The street was left empty and dark, abnormally dark if you ask me: being in the middle of Soho, you could only hope for so much darkness. The same could have been said about the noise, and right on that moment there wasn’t any.

A streetlamp buzzed and twinkled for a few moments before it completely went out, but the buzzing continued, stronger and more persistent each passing moment. The streetlamps looked[12] at each other very confused, because none of them could turn on and the noise wasn’t coming from any of them, but from a strange figure that had just _grown_ from the sidewalk.

A fly fluttered to the shop window and fell dead to the ground with a hissing sound. The air smelled burnt all of a sudden, and the figure scrunched up a nose caked with dirt and grime. Two cold blue eyes scanned the street and the shop for a few more seconds before a voice buzzed:

“They’ve run away, the thrizzzze damned cowardzzzz” then, they turned towards an alley at the other side of the street “I told you, I told you Crowley would zzzzzzlither up here azzz soon azzzzz he knew we’re after him.”

A very surprised lamplight found itself illuminating a portion of the curb, so a second figure could step in from the light and then it went out again. This figure –a man– was better dressed, broad shouldered and had the strangest violet eyes. He took one short look to the empty bookshop and sent a wave of energy towards it. The air sizzled and the blast dissolved into a thin line of smoke. The first figure didn’t seem very impressed.

“They’re not here” said the newcomer.

“Of course not, zzzzztupid angel. They had enough time to haul ass. We’ll never find them again.” They walked towards the dead fly and kicked it until it fell through a nearby gutter. “But why would they put both demonic and _angelic_ ” they spitted that last word as if it was poison “wards around this place?”

“Well, it is Aziraphale’s operation base here on Earth” explained Gabriel, leaning slightly forward to look through the window. “It makes sense they did, if they’ve fraternizing for as long as we suspect. I knew all that smell wasn’t just because of the Jeffrey Archer’s books.”

Beelzebub arched one thin eyebrow and decided to let that slide[13].

“One of them did a miracle just now” they said instead, sniffing the air around. “I feel it.”

The patch of sidewalk where a black vintage Bentley was parked, quite illegally, barely five minutes prior, trembled under their gaze.

“Aziraphale, if I’m not mistaken” corroborated Gabriel “Not a big one, that’s why it took me longer to pinpoint the place. But rest assured, we will catch them soon enough.”

“Don’t zzzee how.”

“We wait until they do any more miracles. We just have to be patient; it will happen sooner or later.”

“Patient!” Beelzebub turned to the archangel and in two strides –longer that it was expected given their size– they were just in front of Gabriel, angry blue eyes piercing him from below, a single bony finger poking him in the chest. “Do you really want me to go back Downstairs and tell the Dark Council to sit on their arses and just be _patient_? Are you in your fucking mind?”

“For Heaven’s sake, have you met Aziraphale?” shouted Gabriel in return, not budging a single bit “He’s completely useless without miracles. He uses them for everything, I swear I can’t understand how Uriel hasn’t punched him yet for all the forms she has to fill concerning his overuse of angelic power. Give him time to fret, I bet he’ll make another one before this time tomorrow.”

Beelzebub seemed to consider this and lowered their finger, but they didn’t step back.

“The angel might be careless, but Crowley is clever” they admitted with a frown, and finally they took a step back, turning to stare at the empty bookshop “One of the cleverest Downstairs. He won’t do any miracle that can be traced. He managed to spend a century off the radar[14]: none of us know what he was up to those years and we still don’t know how he did it. No, he won’t let them get caught like that.”

Silence reigned on the empty street for a while before Gabriel decided to be the one breaking it:

“I must say I wasn’t expecting you to come to me asking for help” Beelzebub scoffed, but Gabriel paid them no mind. “It has been two months, so why now? What’s in it for you?”

“Crowley stole a baby from us.”

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow.

“A human baby?”

“Not an Antichrist this time. We had plans for that one, and the fucking bazzztard up and stole it!”

“So all of this, you contacting Heaven and asking for an alliance… is all about a baby? Please, don’t be offended if I don’t believe a word of what you just said.”

Flies swarmed then, buzzling all at the same time, a legion of minuscule soldiers that raised around Beelzebub’s head like a twisted black halo.

“It izzzzzzz not about the bloody baby” the flies buzzed louder, vibrating almost in synchrony with the sudden rage of their master. “It izzzzzzz about them! As long as they’re still free and running we won’t get anything done! Listen, we want that war, I know damn well you want it too. But we’re not getting it if they’ve decided to fuck up all our movezzz here on Earth.”

And that was the real treat. Heaven and Hell still didn’t know how on Earth did the angel and the demon managed to survive their trials. If they were immune to both Heaven and Hell’s powers… who knows what else they could do.

The flies receded, returning to their aimless flight here and there.

“So we need to find them.” Continued Beelzebub, and Gabriel, as much as he hated it, had to agree with them.

“Indeed.”

“Both of them.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And _end_ them” completed the Prince of Hell. “For good. Unless you wieners are too holy and righteous to make an example of someone of your own kind.”

“We are ready to do whatever it takes.” Gabriel spat. “Even if it means teaming up with you lot. Besides, that waste of space is no longer with us. I don’t know why he isn’t Fallen yet.”

“Well, if he does, we’ll be waiting Downstairs.” They said, casually. “I’ll contact you if we find them, and I expect you to do the same.”

“Of course!” the indignation was plain and clear in Gabriel’s voice but, if he were to be honest, he would also have doubted the Prince of Hell’s integrity. It was nothing personal, really; angels and demons weren’t made to trust each other[4].

There wasn’t anything else to say nor were they keen of spending another minute in each other’s presence: Beelzebub would swear later that their skin prickled with Divine Essence and Gabriel would burn the suit he was wearing because supposedly it smelled of Sulphur an decay. None of that was true, but they had to compensate the fact that Heaven and Hell were making a truce –the first truce since the Fall.

And then, there was light again. The bug’s buzzing blended with the lightbulb’s whirring and disappeared completely, as if it had never existed.

All that was left in the street was a closed bookshop and several very confused lamplights.

And a dead fly on the gutter.

[12] If that was possible for a piece of urban furniture.

[13] That bloke wasn’t Upstairs nor Downstairs yet, but Beelzebub knew that books didn’t _feel_ evil per se. If Gabriel could be fooled by that one, he was more of an idiot of what the Prince of Hell thought.

[14] Best if we don’t tell them that was the century Crowley decided to spend sleeping, eh?

[15] You’ll see our two exceptions again next chapter, fret not.


	3. Rebels and mutineers

Silence was a very strange concept for the Bentley. Ninety years and not a single trip without voices talking, music playing or, at least, Crowley rambling about something or other. Not even during their chaotic ride through the fire and the flames.

Now, despite having two people and a baby inside, it was silent as a graveyard, and, as much as she longed to turn on her own radio and have Queen blasting again through the modern sound system, even a semi-sentient vintage car knew when it wasn’t a good moment. And so, not even the usual rumble of the engine broke the silence.

The hands steering the wheel were tense and white knuckled, gripping the leather as if it could melt under them. The same tension travelled upside two arms and shoulders, creeping up neck tendons, under the skin and into the muscles of Crowley’s jaw. Every single bit of him was highly strung, like the string on a guitar about to snap if the musician kept turning the peg. That nervousness, that feeling as if the tarmac were about to catch fire and engulf them in flames, seeped from him spreading to the angel in the backseat. Yes, the backseat, because Aziraphale had refused to climb on the front with the baby in his arms.

“It’s not safe!” he had said and –Crowley had to give that to him– he was right[16].

It was unnerving not having the angel by his side, but Crowley hadn’t allowed him to miracle a baby car seat. The demon had also refused to explain why, too worried about getting them out of Soho as fast as humanly[17] possible, and Aziraphale, thank someone, was too much of an Englishman to ask again and end up being unnecessarily rude.

Ando so, they continued their silent journey until Crowley, after going up and down what seemed to be every street in London, took the M25.

Instantly, the memory of burnt leather and melting rubber filled his nostrils. The wheel creaked slightly under the pressure of his hands and that was all he could do not to panic. He knew the highway was still there, that Adam had fixed it, that the scorching heat, the hellish flames and the deafening screeching of metal were only in his head, but just as a child _knows_ there are no monsters under their bed; it’s not real but try to tell that to their scared mind.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s voice brought him back to reality. The angel was looking at him through the rearview mirror with a worried frown.

 _Ah, shit_.

He made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. Aziraphale decided to interpret it as an invitation to continue:

“I know you told me to trust you –and I do, I really do…– but I would want to know where are we headed to.”

Crowley wanted to answer, he truly did. He even opened his mouth and everything, but he made the mistake of looking him in the eye. And suddenly, the fire was there again, lapping at the leather and biting into the angel’s pale clothes.

_It’s not real! Get a grip on yourself, you useless demon!_

“Tadfield” he replied, and somehow managed to keep his voice calm and even. Thank someone his glasses were back covering his eyes, or the façade would have failed at the first glance of those blue eyes.

“Why on Earth for?”

Crowley stepped on the gas. The car vroomed and throw them back against the seats. Before, it would have been enough to avoid the question; Aziraphale would be too worried about crushing the handle to death in his grip to ask again.

But that was _before_.

Despite the sudden movement, and surprising even himself, Aziraphale reached forward and his hand took hold of the back of the demon’s seat.

“Crowley! Please, slow down!”

The car tried to, but a single glare from Crowley made her think twice. So, she left their fate to the demon at the wheel and concentrated on not hitting anyone on their way.

At least there wasn’t silence anymore.

The way Crowley’s jaw clenched had to be very painful by now.

“Oh, for the love of…!” Aziraphale huffed, fingers digging into the leather with such strength that Crowley almost swore he heard it. “Would it kill you to answer a blasted question? At least you owe me that!”

“I don’t bloody know why!”

He hadn’t meant to shout, and he didn’t even realize he had done it until the baby, who had been surprisingly quiet, made a startled sound, scrunched up her face and started to cry her lungs out.

Cursing out loud –and earning himself a tut from the angel– Crowley changed lanes with a sudden turn of the wheel[18] and stopped the car on the hard shoulder. Without bothering to turn it off, he moved so he was kneeled on his seat, facing the crying bundle.

“Hey,” he cooed and, to Aziraphale’s amazement, the baby’s wails softened “Hey, I’m sorry duckling, I’m sorry.” His fingers traced her reddened cheek, brushing away tears the size of peas. Then, seeing that wasn’t enough, his hands moved to take her from Aziraphale’s inexpert arms. “C’me here. Nothing is wrong, just old stupid me shouting like a madman…” he ended up sitting sideways, a knee slotted between the seats, cradling the baby to his chest. “It’s okay, see? Nothing is wrong.” The baby hiccupped and more tears rolled down her cheeks, but when Crowley pulled a face, the corners of her mouth curled upwards in a toothless smile. “Ah, see? That wasn’t so bad, was it? You’re a right drama queen, duckling. Not that I have anything against that. What would you think of me if I did, eh?”

Aziraphale was about to tell him that probably the baby couldn’t understand, let alone answer that question, but soon realized the demon could be talking about the dichotomy of Good and Evil in the collective history of Humanity or ranting about tadpoles in a pond: something in his voice seemed to calm the baby down, and that was a surprising thought.

A few minutes passed and the baby, again happy and snuggled in her blanket, took hold of Crowley’s index finger started trying to put it in her mouth.

“She will be hungry in no time, won’t you, beastie?” Crowley was still talking in that soft voice that Aziraphale had only heard when they were Nanny Asthoreth and Brother Francis.

Of course the demon had always been unusually fond of children but with Warlock was the first time Aziraphale witnessed such a fatherly behavior in him. Or motherly, given her female presentation at that moment.

And it had stirred something in him, something he still dared not name.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Why are we going to Tadfield Crowley?” he asked again, and this time, the demon only sighed.

“We had to get out of London and that’s the first place I thought about.”

The angel nodded slowly, still looking at him carefully.

“And does our little friend have anything to do with that?”

“No. Yes. Ngk, maybe.” Crowley racked a hand through his hair and held it on the back of his neck. “I don’t really know where to start.”

“Well, start for the beginning.” Aziraphale suggested. “Where did you go after our dinner at the Ritz?”

…

_Two months earlier:_

It was a good fifteen-minute walk from A.Z. Fell & Co. to Mayfair, but what Crowley didn’t know was that it would take longer than expected.

HELLO, CROWLEY.

He stopped dead[19] in his tracks and turned to the dark alley he had just passed.

Death was there, a body at their feet and an all-bone-y hand touching the side of their skull in a mockery of a military salute. The place reeked of… well, of death, and of something else, something odd and out of place, something he hadn’t smelled since…

Since Tadfield, and the Chattering Nuns, and the convent and the misplaced Antichrist and…

The body –a woman– moved, glassy eyes unfocused and a hand reaching while the other cradled something to her breasts.

“Please…” she begged, and her voice was small and weak. Crowley would have missed it were not for his supernatural hearing. “Help… please.”

Beside him, Death was silent. Waiting. It was never easy to see someone die, Crowley hated it with a passion and that woman was too young, but he also knew better than to take Death’s prey from their grasps.

“It’ll be fast” he said, and that wasn’t a lie. The Reaper never appeared until the very end, less than ten breaths before expiration, and that woman had already inhaled nine times.

“No… not me... please… my child…”

And with that, she was gone, gone to the starred universe under Azrael’s wings, beyond space and time, beyond good and evil, waiting for permission to land on either Heaven or Hell. Crowley hoped it was the former; one look at her poorly fed body and the rags that covered it told him she had suffered enough as it was.

The demon let the air out in a long, tired exhale.

“Well then” no, not well, he had just wanted to get to his flat and had instead witnessed yet another unfair death. “Er. It’s been a pleasure to meet you. Again. But I- I would really, really appreciate if we keep from each other’s paths from now o-”

And then, the bundle in the corpse’s arms wailed.

Later on, Crowley would never be able to explain what possessed him to kneel beside the dead woman and take the child from her cooling hands[20].

When he stood up again. Death was still there, empty sockets directed at him.

“What do you want from me?” Crowley breathed, and yellow eyes shone behind dark shades.

NOTHING AT ALL. JUST TO GET THAT BRAT OUT OF THE WAY. I HAVE BEEN PROMISED A DEMON TO TAKE HER AWAY, AND HERE YOU ARE. I HATE KILLING KIDS AS MUCH AS YOU DO, AND THIS ONE’S TIME ISN’T OVER YET.

“But I’m not-!”

Before Crowley could say anything else, Death was gone. The demon was left standing there, alone and open mouthed, with a baby, still red and wrinkled and smelling of birth, in his arms.

Just like Adam had been inside his little basket, eleven years ago.

“And what I am supposed to do with you now?” The baby wailed again, and Crowley found himself hushing her. “It’s alright, alright. Nothing to be afraid of. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t devour baby humans for breakfast. I mean, I could. But what would be the point of that, eh?”

The baby stopped her crying and looked at him, opening her still swollen eyelids. It was impossible that she could be able to see him yet, but apparently his voice was intriguing enough for her to be curious.

“Exactly my point! You understand, do you?”

The baby cooed and jerked her tiny fists, still too uncoordinated to even open. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the sight.

“Yeah, you and me both, kid, you and me both.”

Before he had time to decide what to do next, something changed in the air. A new smell joined the party, something smelling strongly like death and decay. Crowley’s tongue morphed into his serpentine form to better catch the scent, and a sense of apprehension and dreaded familiarity took over him.

A form lurked out of the shadows and made its way into the dim lights of the alley.

“I thought they would be keeping you on a very short leash, Squee” Crowley said nonchalantly. “How was LA?”

The lesser demon grinned, all teeth and mad eyes and a body that surely didn’t belong to him. Crowley suppressed another hiss of disgust; that bastard, creeping into dead bodies to walk the Earth… Why won’t he ask for a corporation that was not rotting, like everybody else? That’s why no-one liked Squee[21], it would be a miracle if someone did.

“Crawley” he said. “Long time no see. Didn’t think you’d be still alive.”

 _It’s Crowley, you stupid_ …

“Haven’t you heard?” he said instead. “I’m all grown up now, won’t be needing daddy’s wages anymore.” Had it been any other time and he would have fished for an excuse and sauntered away as fast as he could, but Death had mistook him for another demon, and if that demon was Squee… well, then it was safe to say he was curious[22]. And so, he added: “What brings you here anyway?”

“Finally gon’ native, you” Squee smiled, completely ignoring the question. “We had a pool, y’know. T’ see how long it would take. I lost, thought Hell would kill ya before you finally abandon ship. Ne’er like the other demons, where ya? A pity I missed the trial…” The baby wailed softly on Crowley’s arms and Squee turned his gaze towards her. Dead eyes narrowed: at the sight. “Tha’ one’s mine.”

Crowley’s hands tightened his grip on the child.

“I highly doubt it.”

“Not _mine_ as in _my blood_ , stupid” ah, that was a good joke, Squee, the stupidest among the stupidest, calling someone _stupid_. “Hastur sent me to _collect_ her.”

“What for? Thinking of starting another Armaggedon? You know the former Anticrist won’t stand for it.”

“Hell’s great plans for her. ‘S not Doomsday, but this part of the world’s been quiet for too long, or that’s what Beelzebub says. It’s noisy here if you ask me but maybe they can’t hear it. Maybe it’s because of the flies.” Squee then proceeded to make a very bad impression of an insect buzzing around. After a few infuriatingly long minutes, he sobered and extended a putrid hand again.

“Give me the child, Crawley” he demanded.

It would have been much, much easier for everyone if Crowley had just handed her over, forgotten what he saw and simply went on with his life. Really, it would.

But since when did Crowley follow the easy path?

“Nah, I found her first.”

Squee blinked once. Then twice. And a third for good measure, but maybe that last one was to clear away the secretions of his dead eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. What are ya gonna do with a human brat?”

Crowley shrugged:

“Don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll keep her. Try this parenting thingy humans are so fond of.”

Squee was squirming now, wriggling his hands and shooting quick glances over his shoulder.

“This is important, Crawley” a vein pulsed on Crowley’s temple, but the lesser demon didn’t realize. “Hastur… he’s angry. If I return empty handed…”

He shivered. Despite feeling a little bit of empathy towards the demon, Crowley kept his jaw set and his expression unwavering:

“That’s hardly my problem, is it?”

Squee’s borrowed eyes, brown and vitreous and unmistakably dead, glimmered then with terror.

“Give me the child, Crowley” he demanded, but his voice lacked strength, and what was supposed to be a stern order became a lame whine that barely echoed on the alley. “Do-don’t make me fight you.”

At that point Crowley had to laugh, truly laugh.

“Fight _me_ , Squee?” he took a step forward. That should have been menacing, but the lesser demon only looked more confused. “Oh, I see… they haven’t told you…”

“Told me what?”

“I’m immune to Holy Water.” He revealed. “I killed a demon with Holy Water not so long ago. The name ‘Ligur’ rings any bell?”

He could practically see the turning of wheels inside Squee’s mind.

“One of the Dukes of Hell”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid.”

Yellow eyes glared into dead ones, and Squee took a step back.

“So it’s true. I didn’t want to believe… how could you… _what_ _are_ _you_?”

“Your worst nightmare if I ever find you around.”

Maybe it was the scales that had suddenly crept up his neck and into his brow. Maybe it was the fangs that had elongated enough to poke under Crowley’s lips with every word. Maybe it was the way his irises swallowed the sclera, or the echo of black wings behind him.

Squee turned tail and fled.

And Crowley was left alone again.

…

“And then it was only her and me until Hastur appeared in my flat a few hours ago.”

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to continue, but the demon remained silent.

“That’s all?” seeing he wasn’t going to get an answer, he pressed: “Are you telling me you’ve spend these past two months hiding a child in your flat?”

“I couldn’t leave her in an orphanage, Angel. I’ve seen what that does to kids.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” Crowley just shrugged again and feigned to brush something out of the baby’s blanket. Mercifully, she had dozed off and now in was the perfect image of peacefulness. Aziraphale found himself wanting to hold her again.

“She’s so tiny… what could she possibly mean to Hell?”

“Does it matter? I’m not giving her to them.”

“So what are you suggesting we do? Raise her ourselves?”

“Maybe that’s what we should do!”

Silence reigned again in the Bentley, only broken by the low rumbling of the engine. It dilated until all the space was full of it, almost crushing them under its weight. Beside them, on the railway, the traffic went on as it always had.

“Listen angel…”

“I don’t understand…”

They fell silent again. Aziraphale tried to catch his friend’s gaze, but Crowley was not looking at him. In fact, his uncovered eyes travelled across every surface available but him.

A beep had both jumping in their seats. It was not aimed at them –some idiot had overtaken a lorry and had almost crashed into another car–, but was enough to bring them back to reality.

“Listen, angel…” Crowley was not looking at him. In fact, his eyes travelled across every surface to avoid his own gaze, “you don’t need to do this. I only wanted to get you out of London before either of our former sides came looking for you.”

“But why now? Why not two months ago, when you found that baby?”

“I’m guessing that’s the time it took for Squee to gather enough courage to tell Hastur about her. And me. Fucking…” Aziraphale glared and gave the baby a significant look. Crowley swallowed the rest of the curse and continued: “I will drive us to Tadfield and we can… part ways there. Give me an hour, hour and a half. You won’t have to put up with me any longer than that.”

There was no time to analyze why that last sentence stung so much, but the feeling was not forgotten, just stored away for a latter inspection. Instead, Aziraphale chose to be practical and ask instead:

“You thought of Adam, didn’t you? To help you?”

“Yeah. Maybe he… I don’t know, maybe he could…” Crowley throw a hand into the air, fingers flailing around in an imitation of fireworks. “Or maybe Bookgirl. The descendant. And her stupid boyfriend in the glasses.”

“You mean Anathema and Newton.”

“They’re humans, Aziraphale, they’ll be dead within a few decades. What’s the point of learning their names?”

“Well, if we are going to ask for help it would be extremely unpolite to call them ‘Bookgirl and Stupid Boyfriend with Glasses’ don’t you think?” said Aziraphale dryly.

The words in Crowley’s throat rioted and turned against him. His human throat mistook it for a respiratory obstruction and convulsed. For a couple of seconds, the only thing he could do was fight for a breath he didn’t need and try not to cough all over the baby.

“Wait… wait… _We_?”

Aziraphale frowned:

“Of course _we_. What kind of friend would I be if I abandoned you to your fate now?”

He had nor even finished that sentence when a pang of guilt made his stomach churn.

_The kind of friend that denies that same friendship when there’s the first whiff of danger._

He suppressed that thought too; there would be plenty of time for regrets later, when they weren’t running away.

Crowley let out a faint breath, a small sigh of relief that Aziraphale could have not heard weren’t he so close.

“Okay” murmured the demon. “Okay. Let’s go then?”

With the utmost care, Aziraphale took the baby from Crowley’s arms and leaned back in his seat. 

“Lead the way, my dear.”

[16] Let us not talk about how the demon had managed to drive one handed through all of London’s traffic at his usual speed while clutching the baby to his chest with his other arm. Let’s forget that for the sake of Aziraphale’s nerves and the baby’s blessedly short-term memory.

[17] What are two occult/ethereal beings without miracles if not human? At least in appearance.

[18] Any car knew better than to crash into his Bentley.

[19] Later on he would snicker at the author’s bad choice of words.

[20] Crowley couldn’t, but Aziraphale surely did, as well as you and me. Name a single kid that had suffered ill from Crowley’s hands, I dare you.

[21] Author’s note: this is from the Lucifer Series. It’s not important, you only need to know that Squee went to LA animating a corpse, so I figured he would always move like that around earth.

[22] And a little bit offended, to be honest. Was it so easy to replace him after millenia of commendations and well-done jobs?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from "Renegades", by X Ambassadors


	4. When I'm seeing double

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy very belated birthday Cris!!!  
> And sorry everyone, it has been a hard couple of months but I'm not done with this yet. Still no posting schedule, I'm afraid.

The bell rang and Arthur Young opened his door to find a kind but really strange man on his doorstep. He looked exactly like one of those old Oxford professors who would gather in a pub to discuss about God, linguistics and fantasy worlds. No, even those professors would consider his attire outdated. He wore a _tartan bowtie_ , for Heaven’s sake!

“Can I help you?”

“Well, yes. I was… we were wondering if we could have a word with Adam. Your. Er. Your son”.

The man looked awfully nervous, wringing his hands together and constantly glancing around, like he expected someone to come and take him into custody. And that, Arthur Young thought, couldn’t be good.

“Do I know you?” he asked, and if his careful lean against the doorframe didn’t put the stranger out of trying to enter his house, Arthur Young didn’t know what would.

The Oxford-looking _criminal_[23], shook his head, wrung his hands a bit more and gave a smile that had no business being so kind and confused:

“Ah, I… I didn’t think you’d remember. It’s a long story…”

“… that he doesn’t need to know, angel.”

Oh, for the love of God, there was another man walking down the path to his propriety, and this one _did_ look like a dangerous person, what with the ginger hair, the dark glasses, the black skinny jeans and… the baby?

Oh.

_Oh._

Not criminals, then.

“Anthony Crowley” the ginger shifted the baby so he could extend a hand than Arthur Young took almost immediately, introducing himself as well. “This is, eh... Ezra Fell. We need to speak with Adam.”

“I’m afraid he’s out trick or treating with his friends. But if you want to come in…” Arthur Young moved to let them in, but Mr. Crowley was already shaking his head and pressing his mouth in a thin line.

“Yeah, listen, we’re in a bit of a hurry, if you could…”

He flapped a hand over his shoulder and, just with that gesture, realization dawned on Arthur Young:

“I know where I have seen you! You’re the doctor!”

Mr. Crowley stopped talking mid-sentence and arched both eyebrows. His partner also seemed surprised, because he turned to the redhead and said:

“The doctor? What doctor?[24]”

“The doctor who delivered my son, of course.”

For a few seconds, Mr. Crowley looked as lost as Mr. Fell. Then, he seemed to remember:

“Oh, yeah. I… handed him over, yeah.”

“You still got that infrared car, do you?” Arthur Young craned his neck and spotted the black vehicle, lights and engine on and waiting at the curve. “Ah there it is. Beautiful motor you have.”

“Yes, er. We’re in a bit of a hurry. Could you tell Adam we need him?”

“Of course, of course… Are you sure you don’t want to come in? Adam’s curfew is at ten o’clock.”

“We’re sure.” Mr. Crowley said sharply and turned to leave.

“Thank you anyway.” Added his partner, that of course was more polite. “We will be coming back. Er.” Surely he realized how threatening that sounded, because he smiled nervously and rushed to follow his partner.

Arthur Young stood in his doorstep until they got into the car, Mr. Fell taking the baby from Mr. Crowley’s arms so the latter could drive, and until it vroomed down Hogback Lane and out of sight. Only then did he close the door.

“Well, that was a thing…” he said. Then, he shrugged and went back to his favorite armchair to resume watching whatever Halloween film was on.

…

Anathema Device was having a bad night. Not just a bad night, but a really, really bad night. A nightmare of a night, and precisely on All Hallows Eve.

Well, maybe because of it.

Jasmine Cottage was decorated for the occasion, but not how you would expect of an American; there were no plastic bats or cardboard skeletons, nor false spiderwebs or hollow pumpkins with eerie candlelit smiles. Instead, a thick circle of salt surrounded the house, blocking every door, window, nook and cranny, even the small chimney. There were little pouches that smelled strongly of herbs hanging from the trees around the house and every window had a little crown of basil and dill hanging over them. The horseshoe, of course, was still embedded on the wood over the front porch.

As every witch knows, All Hallows Eve is the night of the spirits, and special measures were to be taken during this night, and Anathema wasn’t worried about ghosts, zombies or vampires, but about demons.

Adam and his friends had come earlier with Dog trailing behind them. Like that first time, the former Hellbeast wailed and trashed a bit before moving past the house defenses but did so with little resistance. The children had been wearing really good costumes of the Monty Phyton’s Spanish Inquisition –with Wensleydale as a witch–, and Newt had laughed long and hard at Adam’s declamation of their motto. After stuffing their pockets and bags with chocolates and sweets, the Them had gone home.

Two months since the airbase events, Anathema was still not sure of what Adam was or what the Hell[25] had happened. It was all short of fuzzy and had she be another person, she would have let it go and left all the ordeal behind, just like Newt did.

But Anathema was not like your average human being. She had spent all her life studying the occult with the sole purpose of avoiding the end of the world. She was able to track almost everything down with a pendulum, make potions that blessed or cursed fields and crops, and could, with the right preparation, even make her own aura, magic and whereabouts indetectable to anyone who wasn’t actively looking for her. She had learnt all that because the world was ending and was not about to _forget_ that it had _not_ happened before her nose.

And she also happened to be colossally stubborn.

She was not going to let go of the fact that she was currently living in the same country –the same town actually– as the Antichrist. Even if said Antichrist was apparently immune to all her guards. How was that possible? The witch had traced the runes and sigils as carefully as ever, had read all the indicated versicles and litanies and used all the instruments she’d learned to use while other kids played with buckets and shovels in the playground.

It was not that she didn’t want the boy in her house, she liked the Them and was very relieved to realize Adam was not about to bring the destruction of the world anytime soon. But he was –or had been, she wasn’t sure anymore– the Antichrist and Satan himself had tried to take him away. He had ended the Armageddon that Hell had apparently been expecting for millennia. A vendetta was bound to happen, wasn’t it?

And that was why she was having a bad night: after all the extra work she had put into protecting the house, Adam had, as always, stepped into her propriety like a completely normal human child, and that brought questions: Was her magic faulty? Had it ever been effective? Did all those things actually work against evil?

When you have lived your whole life with a prophetic knowledge of the future, the uncertainty, the not knowing was enough to put you in a state of anxiety that wasn’t easy to overcome.

“Calm down, nothing is going to happen” Newt kept telling her with his best intentions, but since when did the words ‘calm down’ ever helped bring someone down from panic?

That was why, when the doorbell rang and she opened the door to find the soft looking blond man that she remembered all too well from the airbase, she didn’t even scream: se slammed the door shut and braced against it, her mind racing to find the spells that could banish that presence from her doorstep.

Through the wood came a voice:

“Now that is quite rude, dear girl.”

Then, louder, as he wasn’t speaking with her:

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It’s the only idea we have, angel! Ring again!”

The voice had come from afar, but she knew who it was. Anathema could feel the dread forming in the pit of her stomach: two entities she didn’t know how to fight were in her front porch.

“Who’s at the door?”

The woman turned around to see Newt poking his head from the kitchen door. The distress must have been clearly painted on her face, because not an instant later he was beside her.

“Do you remember the strange men I told you about? The ones that ran me over and stole my book?”

Newt’s eyes almost jumped out of his orbits:

“The ones from the airbase?”

She nodded once and pressed her ear against the door.

“But I thought the Apocalypse was over!” babbled Newt. “I thought _we_ stopped it!”

Anathema shushed him.

The two man-shaped beings were still shouting at each other.

“But what if she doesn’t open the door? We can’t just barge in like barbarians!” A pause. “I know that you’re rolling your eyes, dear fellow, and I would very much appreciate if you could stop behaving like a child and come here!”

“I CAN’T” the second one’s voice sounded angry and frustrated. “The damn witch’s got guards all around the bloody cottage!”

A demon, then.

“I knew it” she whispered and suppressed the impulse to gloat; her guards worked just fine.

But then, if the other one had gone right through them, what on Earth was he?

“Aziraphale, if you don’t get her to open the door, somebody help me I’ll…”

That last shout was interrupted by the crying of a baby.

“Oh, God they have a child” wheezed Newt.

Anathema didn’t stop to think.

The blond man –Aziraphale[26], apparently. What a mouthful– almost crossed his eyes at the surprise of having a piece of smooth stone thrusted into his face so suddenly, but that was the only reaction she got.

Why on Earth did she decided to burn Agnes’ second book? They could have avoided this, could have been more prepared.

“Now, now…” the man raised both hands, but it was just to appease her; there wasn’t an ounce of fear nor concern on him. Maybe she should have grabbed the holy water instead of the crystal.

“Leave that baby alone!”

“Leave tha… oh!” the man looked back for just a second to the man standing just outside the guards, a crying bundle in his arms, and then turned to her with a big, apologetic smile. “Oh, no, my dear girl, this isn’t what you think it is. I’m sure you will understand if you just… oh, bugger!”

He had made the mistake of lowering his arms and taking a step forward. Anathema was ready to defend herself, but it wasn’t necessary at all: Newt, brave Newt had stepped forward and, as bold as you like, emptied the whole contents of a bottle of water over the intruder. Then, he grabbed for Anathema’s hand, not quite putting her behind him, perish the thought, but not letting her face the wrath of a possible demon alone either.

Said possible demon ran a hand over his drenched curls and looked down to his camelhair coat, almost dismayed.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Whatever did you do that for?” he chided, but it was clear that he wasn’t expecting an answer.

Anathema felt Newt’s hand crushing her own:

“Why isn’t it affecting him?” he muttered, utterly horrified.

“Well I’m definitely not the Wicked Witch of the West, dear.” It was strange hearing such endearments when the man was clearly annoyed. “I’ll have you know I’ve kept this coat in tip top condition for…”

“You are not a demon” interrupted Anathema. That bottle had been full of Holy Water, directly from the water font of Tadfield small church, it should have reduced him to a puddle.

“Well of course not!”

That seemed to amuse the man outside the wards, who cracked up with laughter, earning a fuming glare from the blond.

Anathema squinted then, her eyes fixed someplace around the blond.

If not a demon, what was he?

“Honestly,” the man kept examining his coat with a desolated look on his face, oblivious to the witch scrutiny. “I expected more from you. Did you forget already that we stood together on the airbase not two months ago?”

“It’s because she knows us that she’s doing this, angel!” shouted the redhaired man, still laughing.

Angel.

She had heard that endearment before but… No, it… it couldn’t be…

And yet there was light, warm and feathery white, were an aura should have been.

Breathless, Anathema turned her gaze towards the other man, and found darkness, coiling and twisting.

The perfect oxymoron happening just before her eyes: two auras that didn’t surround the bodies like a human aura would, but draped over their shoulders like two great wings, black and white, a raven and a dove. And, over the enormity of being able to witness such entities’ auras, Anathema found they looked… surprisingly human. She could read fear, anxiety, dread, hopefulness… and love. And she couldn’t even be sure which one of them was projecting each one. Maybe both.

It took a while to notice the baby was no longer crying but chirping carelessly while trying to reach out for the man’s shades. Now that she thought of it, it didn’t look like an abduction, there wasn’t a single wrong thing with the baby’s aura; in fact, it conveyed happiness and contentment.

“I don’t think they’re a treat” she said, and ignoring Newt’s shocked expression, strode to the cottage’s fence, where the demon waited with an unreadable expression, suddenly empty of laughter. It would have been menacing if not for the fact that the baby managed to grab a hold of his glasses and all but tore them from his face. Yellow eyes looked at her for a whole second before he managed to cover them again.

“Let’s hope we don’t regret this” Anathema said and scrubbed at the salt lines with the tip of her shoe.

…

“So” Newt said, fingers pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Let me see if I got it straight; you’re an angel and a demon, you’re here with a baby…”

“Not an Antichrist” added Crowley.

“Not an Antichrist” accepted the young man. “and you’re running from both Heaven and Hell. Isn’t it?”

“Beautifully summarized, yes” confirmed Aziraphale.

The baby had been fed with a makeshift feeding bottle made with the pierced thumb of a glove attached to one of Anathema’s alchemist-like flasks, and was currently sound asleep on the couch in the parlor, with the back of a chair and a half dozen cushions to prevent her from falling. In the kitchen, a witch, a former witchfinder, an angel and a demon sat around the kitchen table, steaming cups of tea in front of each one of them. Aziraphale, whose coat was currently hanging near the heather, kept touching the damp spots the holy water had left in his clothes. Each time he did this, Crowley inched farther away, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. Poor Newt had apologised a thousand times over now, but each time only made their unexpected guest more uncomfortable.

“Is this because of what we did last August?” Newt asked.

“Because of what _we_ did, my dear.” Aziraphale made a gesture between him and Crowley to make his point clear. “They… they don’t consider humans decisive factors in God’s Plan, I’m afraid. Even when they are-you are” he corrected himself, “more than perfectly capable of fending for yourselves.”

Anathema wisely chose not to comment on the overall inutility of the two ethereal and occult beings in the airbase events, asking instead:

“And what does God think of all this?” How on earth had she gotten in a situation where that question could actually be made in a non-ironical way?

“She’s AWOL.” Crowley wasn’t looking at any of them, choosing instead to glare at his tea like it had somehow offended him “Lost cause. Not talking to anyone since the beginning of time, give or take.”

Ah.

In all honesty, Anathema didn’t quite know what was hoping the answer to be. When Newt looked at her with a face that very much reflected that same line of thinking she turned to their guests again:

“So you need help.”

When Aziraphale nodded but didn’t say anything else, Newt prodded:

“From… eh… from us?”

“Or Adam” the angel added, and fiddled with the neck of his shirt. Crowley, already pressed against the table leg, clenched and unclenched his fists. “All the help we could get, actually. We know it is terribly selfish of us to put you in danger again, we wouldn’t do it during normal circumstances but…”

He trailed off, but the way they both avoided to look in the direction of the sleeping bundle in the parlour spoke for itself.

“Just so we’re all in the same page, we’re not asking you to keep her” stated Crowley, and finally raised his covered eyes to meet hers. “We just need protection.”

“But you are a demon” objected Anathema. “And somehow you’re in cahoots with an angel. What help could we provide in front of what you can do?”

“They are tracking our miracles.” It was painfully clear that Aziraphale had not known that piece of information, because the man –well, man-shaped being– turned to him with the most comically shock expression she had ever seen.

Undeterred by his companion’s distress, Crowley kept talking:

“If reality so much as quivers around us, we are done for. You’re a witch, aren’t you? You should now spells to keep our auras hidden.”

She did.

“I’ll see what can I do.” she answered. “But tomorrow. It’s too late for Adam to be awake, and I’m sure you need to…” Did they even sleep? Crowley looked like he should. “to rest. And the baby needs it too. What’s her name, by the way?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and closed again. He turned to look at Crowley, who simply tilted his head and arched his eyebrows.

“She should have a name” Anathema concluded and stood up. “But there will also be time for that. There is a guest room upstairs, and Newt can show you the bathroom. Whatever you need, just ask.”

Aziraphale stood too, and he even bowed his head like one of those lords of old.

“We will be forever in your debt, miss Device.”

“Anathema will do.”

…

When Aziraphale emerged from the bathroom and went downstairs, wearing a new outfit that was just as outdated than the previous one, he found Crowley sitting down on the floor by the sofa, a hand raking through his hair while the other played nervously with his shades. The angel went to the suitcases that had been unloaded from the truck of the Bentley and opened one of them to put away his holy water damp clothes, that were currently secured in a tightly closed plastic bag. A humid piece of cloth wouldn’t kill Crowley, but it could burn him badly, and Aziraphale wasn’t about to make the demon suffer by being near him.

He closed the suitcase and opened another, full to the brim with books, and selected one.

Crowley still hadn’t moved. From his chosen spot on the carpet.

“I thought you were going to take up the guest room” Aziraphale commented and, instead of occupying the armchair near the window, he sat down on the side of the sofa that the baby didn’t take up, his knee almost touching Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley didn’t seem to care.

“Can’t sleep.” He answered and leaned his head against the cushioned seat. His hair was tousled and too long for the cut he had been wearing the last couple of months. “Might as well keep her company here.”

“I was going to guard her.”

Crowley shrugged.

“Just in case.”

Silence was beginning to be a common presence between them and Aziraphale didn’t like it one bit.

They weren’t like that; Crowley wasn’t like that.

He dearly missed their nights back in the bookshop and the chat, and the banter, and how Crowley would talk, and talk, and stride around like he owned the space, and challenge him into admitting things that Aziraphale thought, deep down, but wouldn’t dare say out loud.

He missed life before Armageddidn’t, before the Antichrist, when he knew what to hope for.

Before, he would have sat on the armchair and Crowley on the sofa, taking up all the space. The demon would have brought up some old biblical tenet and turned it all upside down by reduction to the absurd, daring him to bite the bait. And Aziraphale would have bitten it, swallowed it whole, hook, line and sinker, and it would have been a pleasure to do so, to have someone to talk to, to bicker and squabble even. Someone that could have been considered a friend if things were not so complex.

Before there would have been a well-drawn line between what was allowed and what was not and, even while they walked that tightrope, they knew what to expect, what to risk, what to keep. Late nights ended and they returned each to his own side of the line, where it was, if not happy, at least safe.

Crowley had wiped away that line at the bandstand ( _we’re on our side!_ ), and Aziraphale had drawn it back so hard, so fast, it could be already too late to try and erase it again.

_There is no ‘our side’!_

“What are you reading?”

Crowley’s voice fished him out of the depts of his thoughts. The demon was looking at him with a face that said that he too was sick and tired of the silence.

 _Tell me something, angel_ , it seemed to say. _Anything, I’ll take it from there just… give me something._

“ _De Profundis_ ” he answered. The book was open but he hadn’t read a single line.

“From who?”

“Oscar.”

The snort was quite unexpected:

“Of course.”

Aziraphale didn’t like the tone in what that was said. Nor the thrice damned silence that followed.

It had to be broken, if not by Crowley, then by him.

“I don’t…”

Crowley groaned and sunk his face in his knees, hands gripping his fiery locks.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t… ” he breathed once, twice, and then raised his head again, but didn’t looked at him. “I’m sorry. Bad day. Shouldn’t shovel my shit on you, you don’t deserve it.”

 _I think I do_ Aziraphale thought. _If you are angry with me, I do deserve it._

“Don’t worry about it, dear.” He said instead. “It is as you said: bad day.” And the, when the silence threatened with taking over again, he asked: “What are we going to tell Adam tomorrow?”

“I don’t think Adam’s going to help.”

Another unexpected think, and Crowley still hadn’t look him in the eye.

“What makes you think he won’t?”

“We gave him a choice, and I know without a doubt that he has already made it.” The demon answered. “All he’s ever wanted is to be human and be with his friends. That’s the whole purpose of denying Satan as his father: to be just human. If that witch doesn’t help us we’re fucked.” A sigh, another crease on his friend’s forehead. “Sorry for dragging you along, by the way.”

Another pang in his chest. Another stroke of ink in the indelible line between them.

_I’m sorry you came._

_I’m sorry I made you part of it._

“I’m not” he murmured, overwhelmed, and only when Crowley turned his whole body to look at him in shock did he realise he had actually said it. “I’m not” He repeated. “You told me that we were on our own side, did you not?”

For a second Aziraphale thought he saw something glimmer on Crowley’s eyes, but it was soon gone, and the demon was back at avoiding his gaze.

“Didn’t expect our side to have a third person, did you?” Long fingers lowered the blanket until the rosy face of the baby was visible. The tip of an index tickled her cheek in a gesture that couldn’t be described as anything but fond.

Ah, there was again that feeling in the pit of his stomach and he wasn’t brave enough to confront it and acknowledge it for what it was.

“Anathema is right.”

“’bout what?”

“She needs a name.”

Crowley turned his head to him, and there was that arched eyebrow, that slightly curved corner of his mouth.

“She already _has_ a name.”

“‘Duckling’ is not a name, Crowley.”

The demon moved to lean his arm against the seat, his whole body turned towards him:

“Says who?” he asked.

There. That’s what was missing. There was the bait, and now he had to raise to it.

“Well, every sensible being in this world!” he answered, and something seemed to click in place, for the silence vanished from the parlour.

Crowley smirked and Aziraphale found himself smiling too.

“You can call her whatever you like, but I’m sticking with Duckling.”

“But I’ve never maned anything! Back in the Garden it was Adam… the first Adam… who…”

“C’moooon angel, you don’t have to invent a name. Just… pick one that already exists. Look, I’ll even help you. Rose.” He lifted a finger and did so with each name he said. “ Daisy. Lily. Iris. Violet. Marigold.”

“Really Crowley? Plant names?”

“That’s all I can think about! The names I know best are from Hell, and I’ll be damned… again… if I allow you to call her something from Heaven. Or do you want a girl named after that fucking bastard that was your boss?”

Aziraphale pulled a face and shook his head, but the mental image of a little girl with Gabriel’s features was hard to dissipate.

“No, of course not.” He agreed. “Then something from Earth? How about…”

Crowley became quiet and raised a hand to stop him.

“From Earth?” he asked. “You mean from humanity?”

“That was the idea, yes.”

The smile was back as Crowley turned to look at the sleeping baby.

“Eva[27].” He said softly, and then yellow eyes went back to him. “Eva.” He repeated, surer this time, bolder. “You can’t ask a more human name than that.”

“I’m sure I could think of others…” Aziraphale started arguing, but suddenly it occurred to him he ought to ask why, and he did. “She was tempted by you…”

“I gave her a choice.” Replied Crowley defensively. “Think about it, angel; she was the first to have a choice, to look up at the tree and think ‘sod this stupid rule, I want to _know_ ’. I want her to choose too.”

It was a beautiful idea.

Aziraphale looked from Crowley to the little bundle beside him on the sofa and his eyes went softer, if that was possible. He raised his hand to her small forehead to bless her, like he used to do _before_ , but then thought better of it.

“Eva it is, then.” He said, and it felt right.

“Eva the Little Duckling.” Cooed Crowley and Aziraphale muffled a laugh. “What?”

“Nothing, dear.”

Both of them were smiling.

[23] Apparently Arthur Young had already decided that.

[24] In another universe somebody would be asking a surprisingly similar question to a surprisingly similar man-shaped being.

[25] Quite literally.

[26] There hadn’t been time for introductions at the airbase. When Arthur Young arrived and took the children with him, the rest of them had each gone on their merry way. Best not to dwell where a gigantic angry red beast had just been.

[27] A.N.: Pronounced /ee-fa/. Sorry, I decided the name in Spanish. My OC my rules!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the song is from "Lullaby Love", by Roo Panes


End file.
